


losing teams and good graces

by gayforroxane



Category: IT 2017
Genre: Banter, But not today, Flirting, Light Angst, Time Skips, West Wing AU, politics! good fun!, president michael hanlon, press secretary! eddie, reporter! richie, sometime ill make it into a fandom without doing a west wing au, that thing where someone has the weird ability to guess coffee orders, weird intuition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 20:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: He knows the last reporter from the Washington Post to go out on a potentially life-threatening reporting mission somewhere. At the moment, Yemen is an ugly place. There are children dying, there's famine and war and torture and a deadly outbreak of cholera and violence from Saudi Arabia. And there's only one reporter Eddie knows stupid enough to run into it, full-force, with a grin and a bad joke and a camera.or, west wing au! richie goes missing in yemen and in the three days it takes to find him (or his body), eddie reminiscences





	losing teams and good graces

 

It rains in DC for a week straight.

The clouds are low enough that you can reach up and tough them, and they gather at the mouths of storm drains and crowd around overpasses. There are six car accidents in the first day, all of them fatal, and the Chief of Police requests that all people remain in their homes. Most people do. Small grocers close, and big ones cut their staff. Gyms close, and so do yoga studios, art galleries and even some of the chains, like the Starbucks on fourteenth.

But there is a small group of people who flag down sleepy taxi cabs, or wave at cautious bus drivers. They stop at tiny local cafes where the six a.m. staff know them by name, and pick up their suits and blouses and sweaters and skirts from the laundromats. And they go to work.

 

_November 16, 0556_

"You finally fix your form, Mr. Kaspbrak?"

"I did, Jenny, what would I do without you?"

"You don't have to sound quite so grateful, sir. What're you at, now?"

"One-twenty, thanks to you. Say hi to your wife for me, alright? Have a good day, Jenny!"

It's Sunday, and most everyone is asleep. Except for Jenny, at the security desk, and Mitch, who cleans on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday mornings, and Edward Kaspbrak. It takes him two minutes to walk from security to his desk if no one stops to talk to him, and four with the inevitable number of people who do. Nancy asks about his mother (again, the third time this week, though he doesn't mind), and Jacob hands him a stack of files and proceeds to tell him about the results of his sexual health test, which Eddie had absolutely no desire to know. He's pulling his jacket off his shoulders and settling it on the back of his chair when someone knocks softly on his door.

Eddie looks up.

He expects someone else than who it is, because its 6:01 and there's a person who used to meet him every morning with a black, dark roast coffee (for Eddie) and a mocha frap (for the person, no matter the weather). They don't anymore, and they left haven't for a year (fifteen months, three weeks and two days, but Eddie's not counting).

It's easy to smile at Beverly, though, who leans against his doorframe, arms crossed, her dark blue blazer gathering at her shoulders. He lets his eyes fall over her appreciatively. She's tall and lean, in a blue pantsuit, brown pumps and a white blouse, all of it well-tailored and clean.

"You look good, Bevvie," He says and delights in the way her cheeks pink, just a little.

"Thanks, Eddie. We've got senior staff at seven, right?"

He raises an eyebrow. Duh. Senior staff at seven has been the only consistent thing in his life since the President won the election two years ago. Politics are never consistent. He looks at the fishbowl. People aren't consistent, either. Family isn't, and he doesn't have friends outside of his colleagues. He looks down at his desk, at his laptop, and back up at Bev.

She picks at her cuticles, glances at the floor, at the fishbowl on his desk, at the old TV. He waits.

"I --" Her voice cracks. A long, painful-sounding breath whistles from her mouth and she says, "Eddie, have you read the briefing this morning?"

He frowns. He hasn't, because it's - he looks at the clock - 6:04 and he starts reading the briefing at 6:15, when he's finished setting up his office for the day, before he starts his calls and goes to senior staff. They've been dealing with an issue surrounding Pro-Life lobbyers attacking women outside of clinics for the past few days. He straightens, sharp resentment crossing his face. There are people attacking Beverly directly for having an abortion when she was seventeen. Eddie's passed.

"Did one of those women from the clinics get hurt? Because I swear to God, I will take apart the entire fucking Republican party, Bev, I--"

"Do you know Ethan Champagne?" She says, and she fixes him with a steady, sorry, wide-eyed gaze that hurts.

Eddie's teeth click. "He runs the Washington Post."

"He's in Ben's office."

There are very few reasons for editors of acclaimed newspapers to arrive at the White House without an invitation. The first is as some kind of politic declaration, usually one against the current administration, but Ethan is biracial and queer and a self-proclaimed socialist and the White House is the most liberal it's ever been. The second is because of some kind of mass crisis, but Eddie isn't blind or stupid and he would have noticed if the Middle East or North Korea or Syria had taken a violent and possibly world-altering turn last night. The third reason is that a reporter is missing. Missing in a warzone, in a country without a government, within a state caught beneath the full weight of a coup.

A missing reporter shows up on a White House briefing, but not on morning news.

Eddie doesn't look at Beverly. He can't.

He knows the last reporter from the Washington Post to go out on a potentially life-threatening reporting mission somewhere. At the moment, Yemen is an ugly place. There are children dying, there's famine and war and torture and a deadly outbreak of cholera and violence from Saudi Arabia. And there's only one reporter Eddie knows stupid enough to run into it, full-force, with a grin and a bad joke and a camera.

"Richie's missing," Eddie says, and there's no question that he's right, because the air around Bev goes quiet and thick. He tries to stop it, he really does, but he can't and it's all there--

_Richie's big hands, wrapped around a fishbowl, with a tiny goldfish inside. Richie's pink cheeks and self-conscious half-smile as he told Eddie that Stan told him that he liked goldfish. Eddie bursts out laughing, because the crackers, he likes the crackers, but Richie is so gorgeously sweet that he leans forward and up, squishing the fishbowl between them as he presses a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth._

_Richie blowing into his office - there's no fishbowl on his desk, not yet - and just staring as Eddie barrels towards him, encases him in a hug. All of the White House Communications Staff is bright smiles - Stan and Bill, even Georgie, and the President Elect - and fond glances at EddieandRichie, pressed against each other. "We fucking did it! We fucking did it, you giraffe! I'm so proud, baby, we fucking did it!" Eddie shouts in his ear, over the sound of people celebrating and popping champagne. Michael Hanlon, democrat, black man, gay man, doctor of economics, has just been elected President of the United States._

_Eddie coming into the press room from the camera room, and pressing a long kiss to Richie's cheek, a hand curled into his hair, before he strides up to the podium. "Good morning, my little brats, let's get started. First things first, congratulations to Richie Tozier - that's T-O-Z-I-E-R - for winning the Pullitzer Prize for journalism, and I would say that I offer my condolences to those of you who lost, but I don't, because clearly you should go home." The reporters in front of him laugh, and several of them reach over to Richie, high-fiving him and tousling his hair. Richie gives him a smile, a small, charming thing that curls in Eddie's jaw and behind his teeth._

_Four in the morning the day of the State of the Union, quiet. Richie's arm slung around his waist and his nose buried in his hair, and pretending that Richie wasn't leaving for an eighteenth-month assignment in Yemen, pretending that Eddie wasn't losing another constant, because no one stays._

\-- in front of him, and he can't do it.

For three minutes - he counts, carefully, to 180 - that his hands shake so violently his shoulders tremble and cave in, and his eyes burn and his chest burns and he can't breathe through his nose, so his breaths come in laboured, grieving heaves from his mouth. The clock ticks from 6:06 to 6:09, and Eddie stops. He grabs a wetwipe from his desk and a bottle of water from the little fridge beneath his desk. He wipes his face and chugs half the bottle. He drags his hand down his face.

"They might find him, Eddie," Beverly says. She steps forward and curls him into a hug. He tucks his face into his neck and breathes.

"They'll find him, Bevvie, they always do." The words seem comforting, but his voice is hollow, and they both know that there will be photos, maybe reports, of what happened to Richie Tozier. He'd have been shot, probably; Tortured and shot, beatened and shot, just beatened, just shot, just dead. The public will mourn, a little, sympathetic frowns, but they will forget.

Eddie won't.

"Oh, honey," Bev says, and presses a long kiss to his forehead, and then another into his temple.

"Eddie, are you--!" Bill bursts into his office with all the grace of an enthusiastic, newborn calf, tumbling into Bev and Eddie, wrapping them in his arms with the momentum in his flushed cheeks and heaving chest.

"Hi, Bill." Eddie curls into his chest, shamlessly needy for touch.

"They'll find him alive," Bill says, strong enough that someday, before Richie left, Eddie would have believed it.

His phone starts to ring and Bill flinches, hard.

"No, they won't." Eddie pulls away from them, and turns toward his desk, plucking up his phone. "Kaspbrak." He chews on his lower lip. "Yeah, hi Stan. I know. Yeah, Bevvie told me." He closes his eyes. "I know they won't. Bill told me they would." He laughs, but it hurts. "Sure, why don't you bring Ethan down to my office?" The phone clicks as he settles it.

He looks at Bev and Bill, who are both too quiet, watching him. He doesn't try to smile, because it's not happening today, not really. He doesn't even know if he can fake it for the cameras, for the press corps. "I'll see you guys in senior staff at seven."

Bill looks at Beverly and he wants to say something, wants to tell Eddie to take a fucking day off, to let himself feel and grieve and hurt. But he doesn't.

They stand and leave.

 

_November 1, 2100, two years earlier._

"The election's in three weeks."

"I know."

"The election of the President of the United States is in three weeks and you're asking me to drop it all because you have a goddamn UTI?"

"Edward Kaspbrak--"

"Mom, I don't really think you realize how involved I am in getting this man elected. He's going to be President of the United States."

In Derry, Maine, his mother sniffs and clucks her tongue.

In Washington, DC, Eddie licks away the blood that swells to the surface as he bites into his lower lip, trying not to snap at her.

"I don't approve of that man. I hope you know that I won't be voting for him, Eddie-bear. He's far too--"

Fuck it. "Far too what, mom? Too gay? Too black? Too smart? Too liberal? I've had it with your shit. He's a good man, and he'll make a fucking great President."

He ends the call as aggressively as he can on a touch screen and slams his phone down, hard. His chair creaks as he leans back, digging his index fingers into his tear ducks and dragging his hands through his hair. There's a flush high in his cheeks and he's furious, just from a five-minute phone call with his mother.

"Ooh, gettin off at work. That's dirty. Wouldn't-a known yuh had it in yuh."

Eddie jerks and sits up, banging his hand on his desk. "Fuck." He looks at the man leaning against his cubicle, arms crossed, a grin on his wide mouth. A pale pink cableknit sweater gathers around his shoulders, and he's wearing a red and black flannel underneath it. His jeans are dark, with rips in the knees and the thighs, and his converse are a horrible, rotting shade of orange. Eddie wrinkles his nose, before his eyes flick up to the man's face. He's tall, much taller than Eddie, lean and broad and sharp. His hair is caught in a bun, all piled on top of his head, and he's wearing a nose ring. His eyes are enormous and dark brown, caught behind huge, dark glasses. He sticks a hand out to Eddie. Cautiously, Eddie leans forward to press his own into it, and realizes that his fingers barely brush the second knuckle of the man's hands.

"I'm Richie Tozi-uh," He says, and rocks on his heels. "I'm coverin fo' Layhill fo-a few weeks." He keeps going after that, but Eddie barely understands every other word.

He cocks his head, careful to watch Richie's lips as he speaks. His voice is weighted down with a heavy New York accent. He drops all of his 'r's and his 'g's at the ends of words, and his mouth does something enough to his 'o's.

"Oh," Richie stops suddenly. He runs his tongue over his front teeth and blows a raspberry before saying, "I'm Richie Tozier. I'm covering for Layhill for the next few weeks, ayuh - his wife's pregnant and she's been having some difficulty."

Startled, Eddie blinks. The New York accent is gone, replaced by an accent he recognizes as his own - small town Maine, a little bumbly, with added syllables. It's flawless. And now, Eddie doesn't just catch every other word.

"Jesus," Eddie says, "What the fuck?"

Richie grins. It's a pretty thing that makes Eddie watch a little closer, caught up in his freckles and his red cheeks. "I'm the campaign trail lead for the Wash Post while Dan's outta town, dealin with the Missus. I hea' you're my man." The New York accent is back, just a little bit softer.

Eddie's mouth fishes open and closed. "Ayuh." He clears his throat. "I'm Eddie Kaspbrak, you'll be dealing with me and the rest of the Press Corps. Do you know anyone else?"

Richie tilts his head to the side, crosses his ankles and leans against Eddie's doorframe. "Not yet, sweetheart. Honey. Eddie. Eddie - Eds! Eddie-Spaghetti!"

"If you call me any of those in the press room, I'll beat you with the Sunday edition of the New York Times," Eddie says, sharp, as he stands and gathers his briefing for the day. He strides past Richie, clucking his tongue for him to follow.

"But I can you that when it's just you and me, honey?"

Eddie feels the tips of his ears go pink and hopes it doesn't spread to his cheeks. There's something about Richie's voice - about his dropped r's and the 'in' at the end of his i-n-g words - and the way he pins Richie with big eyes and a pretty smile.

"You're gonna have to work on your outfit if you're gonna be our correspondent. We take the professionalism of our journalists very seriously." Eddie smiles at Ben, who's gesticulating wildly with Bill, their mouths and eyes bright, clearly on a roll for a speech.

"Yeah, I know." Eddie looks at Richie as he stops at the coffee machine and sees him looking at the ground, a hand on the back of his neck. He lifts his head and his cheeks are rosy. Eddie stares.

He kind of wants to bite them.

"Uh." Eddie clears his throat, turning back to the coffee machine. "I mean... you look - good. Somehow." It's true. The jeans cling to his ass and thighs in a way that's flattering, but not untoward. The red plaid buttoned up to his throat fits well across his broad shoulders and Eddie resolutely doesn't think about holding on to those shoulders as Richie presses him up against the wall. Except he totally is. Fuck.

Eddie passes Richie a cup of coffee with four sugars, two creamers and a fuck ton of vanilla creamer as a distraction and heads resolutely towards Stan's office.

"Wait - how did you know how I like my coffee?" Richie's sounds delighted and a little bewildered and there's something in his voice that makes Eddie's throat go tight.

Richie comes up alongside him and Eddie looks up up up at him. "Just a guess."

Richie blinks at him.

"What?" Eddie asks, frowning, and then catches Bev's gaze as she marches towards them. "Uh oh."

"What?" Richie follows Eddie's line of sight and balks. "Oh my God, is that—"

"Yeah," Eddie says, voice quiet and grim. "Welcome to the Hanlon for President Campaign, I'm your boss and Beverly Marsh is about to kick my--"

"Edward Frank Kaspbrak! You piece of shit."

Richie wraps his arm around Eddie's shoulder and pulls him into his side, presses them together.

"Hi, Bev," Eddie says weakly.

"Oh, don't 'hi Bev' me, you little shit! You pissed off Keene. I told you not to piss off Keene and you went ahead and pissed off Keene. What the fuck is your problem? He's Maine oldest senator and without him we could lose Maine and it's twenty-seven electoral votes! What the fuck, Eddie?"

Eddie presses his lips together, closes his eyes and counts to ten. Him and Bev are friends - really good friends, actually - but working together is a living, breathing nightmare. They're both short fuses, which works when they team up on others, but not so much when they end up on opposite sides. She's about to knock him down in the middle of the hallway.

To be fair, he deserves it.

But he's still pissed.

"I'm--" Richie extends his hand as if to introduce himself, his voice mangling a Cockney accent. He might as well have handed her a dead fish, with the look she gives him.

"Suck a dick, you fucking mop," she snaps, her gaze not leaving Eddie. "Explain. Now."

"Bev, he called Congressman Hanlon a--"

"I know what he called him, Eddie, I was in the fucking meeting, but you called him a whore who doesn't know Maine from Georgia and who's 'so stuck in the mud, he's practically wearing it as blackface.'" Beverly's voice gets calmer as she works through the sentence, increasingly pissed off with him.

"You called Senator Keene a whore and a racist and lived?" Richie says, dropping his arm from around Eddie's shoulders and stepping away. He raises an eyebrow and fixes Eddie with an impressed stare, looking a little scared and a little... something else that makes Eddie flush and shiver.

"Technically he called his mother a whore, Mr. Tozier."

Eddie swears and his head drops forward, before he turns on his heel, faking a professional smile. "Congressman Hanlon."

"Eddie," he says, and smiles at Beverly. She winks. His intense gaze and wide smile turn to Richie, apparently unsurprised by his outfit. "How are you, Mr. Tozier? How's your mother?" He extends a hand for Richie to shake. Eddie stares at their hands.

Michael Hanlon, New York Congressman of seven years and future President of the United States (hopefully) is not a small man. He's broad-shouldered and fit, despite the grey peppering his beard. Congressman Hanlon is edging six four, and he's got hands the size of plates.

Richie is at least a couple inches taller than him, slighter, but still broad across the shoulders, long-fingered hands the size of oven mitts. Pianist hands.

Eddie's tongue comes out to lick at his bottom lip and he looks away.

"I'm fine, Sir. Admiral Tozier--" Richie gives a fake salute, over the top enough to make Beverly stiffle a laugh "--is doing fine. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, though dad's less than pleased. It's good to see you, Congressman, it's been a long time."

"Glad to hear it, I'd love to work with her. You've been following the campaign?"

"Of course, Sir. You've got a--" Richie side-eyes Eddie. "--an excellent staff."

Congressman Hanlon laughs. "IThank you, Mr. Tozier."

"Richie, please."

"Walk with me. You too, Eddie." He nods at Beverly. "Meeting in Stan's office at 3."

She smiles. "Thank you, Sir."

Congressman Hanlon heads off down the hallway, Richie and Eddie on either side. Eddie's trying to process the fact that Richie's mom is Admiral Margaret Tozier, top pick for Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the President's top military advisors. He's also trying to mentally brace himself for the lecture he's about to receive.

"So, you're covering for Dan Layhill?"

"Yessir, Dan's wife popping out their newest. He's pretty chuffed."

Unlike Eddie, the Congressman doesn't react to Richie's unusual language. He smiles. "He would be. Eddie, would you remind me to give him a call and congratulate him?"

"Of course, Congressman."

"Speaking of--" His voice goes a little sharp, a little stern. Eddie recoils. "--We have to talk about your meeting with Senator Keene, Mr. Kaspbrak."

Eddie chews on his lower lip. "That'd be good idea, Congressman."

"You're gonna get your ass beaten," Richie whispers to him, bending a little to talk in Eddie's ear, breath brushing his neck. A kiss is pressed against Eddie's neck, slow and lingering, deeply intimate. It's just dry, chapped lips, but they've known each other for twenty minutes. Eddie shivers, an embarrassing, full-body thing that prompts Richie to press another behind his ear and a third to his temple. He straightens and Eddie's eyes follow him as he does. "See you in the Press room, Eds."

And it doesn't even occur to Eddie to correct or scold him on the nickname until Congressman Hanlon is halfway through a lecture on the correct way to treat elected officials, especially if said officials are being assholes.

He's so fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> ooooh this is gonna be fun let's just hope i actually finish it!
> 
> lemme know what you think/come bother me at gay-for-roxane


End file.
